therealpm | 6:00 AM, Buckinghamshire

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*He's been semi concious for about half an hour (fucking birds and their fucking dawn chorus) by the time his alarm goes off at six. He rolls over to tap it off and nearly falls when the bed turns out to be a sofa and the bedside table turns out to not exist.

Urgh.

He rubs the sleep and remnants of last night's glamour charm off his face and goes to make two cups of tea. There's no signs of life from upstairs but perhaps that's to be expected. John's campaign thus far has reeked of indolence at every level. Peter will have to set about sorting that (and their finances) later - for now he needs to get Bercow out doorstepping.

There's a heavy copper-bottomed pan hanging from the wall. By the look of it, it's never been used for anything other than show. He grabs a ladle and gives it an experimental thwack.*

BONG

BONG

BONG

*Peter pauses, from the muffled cursing and thuds as various objects are knocked to the floor, it would appear that upstair's occupant has finally awoken.*

...BONG

Current Location: Buckinghamshire
Crossposts: http://therealpm.livejournal.com/39733.html

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From:

*John might be a heavy sleeper but even he couldn't sleep through the racket downstairs. He manages to make his way out of bed and downstairs, smashing his little toe into the corner of only one doorframe which later John will count as an achievement.*

What in Merlin's name do you think you're playing at?

*He glances bleary-eyed at the clock on the wall.*

It's six o'clock for heaven's sake!

From:

*Peter shoves a cup of tea cross the counter and continues scribbling on a piece of paper.*

I've examined your election literature. It will do for today's doorstepping in these wards...

*He slides across the top sheet from his notepad*

...but by tomorrow we need something that will make voters want to get out and vote positively for you, rather than simply getting them to stay home and not vote Green or UKIP.

I have quotes from three...

*His phone pings*

...four printers, all of which are substantially more affordable than your current supplier. Of course your campaign funding is still somewhat dire but there is a list...

*He flicks through a stack of papers.*

...of potential donors that The Machine prepared overnight - I suspect that after a few home visits over the next couple of days we should be able to raise enough to reach the spending limit. That will cover the printing and possibly some phone calls to the more remote houses...

*He sips his tea and keeps reading.*

From:

*John blinks at the caffeinated offering and eventually takes it.*

It's just gone six o'clock in the morning, Peter - if I were to go door knocking or start calling potential donors now I'd be more likely to lose their support than anything.

Can't this all wait - another hour at the very least? We stayed behind rather late at the meeting last night - on your orders, I should add - and I didn't get to sleep until well past 1...

From:

*Peter ignores John's protestations*

I assume you have a home printer somewhere; there's the briefing and route for today that needs printing off. By the time you've absorbed that and got ready and visited your constituency office to discuss artwork for the new leaflets and actually driven to the wards in question I suspect we'll be fairly close to 8am.

From:

There's a printer in the office, but whether there's any ink is another matter...

8am? But no one gets to the office until 9!

From:

...

I will return momentarily. Go and get ready.

*Peter heads off to the fireplace, back towards civilisation where things actually work.*

Oh, and it's St George's day, so try and avoid anything unpatriotic.

*He starts a new fire and scrambles through.*

From:

*John drains the last of his tea and then sets off to get ready, grumbling to himself all the while.*

*Eventually he emerges - freshly washed, shaved and in his canvassing suit. He had contemplated the St George's Cross bowtie but decided against it as he knew Peter would frogmarch him back upstairs and make him change it anyway.*

We're going to be a bit short staffed this morning, I'm afraid; a few of the sixth form students have early classes on a Thursday and won't be able to join us until after lunch.

From:

*Peter makes his own preparations in London while the documents print. He packs enough clothes for several days, his ipad, and the other miscellany that one needs on a trip. He considers trying to float himself through the fireplace to avoid having to touch the rather grubby brickwork but decides against it. Hands can be washed, but mockery from John if he lands face first in a grate would last for years.

He can here John nattering through the fireplace but doesn't pay much attention. Whatever it was, John will probably repeat it several times in the car anyway. He takes a last look around to make sure he hasn't missed anything before gingerly clambouring back through to Buckingham.*

From:

Peter? Peter are you even lis-

*John watches as Peter climbs back through the fireplace. With a suitcase. And a grubby, yapping Jack.*

Peter, what is all this? You said we had to get going!

From:

*Peter puts his suitcase down on the sofa and stretches.*

Have you had breakfast? You'll be far too irritable on the doorstep by 9 if you haven't.

*He wipes his fingers on a handkerchief, then unclips the suitcase and takes out a sheaf of papers, passing them to John.*

Those are for today. Try not to lose them or let any of the press or public see them.

*He scratches Jack behind the ears*

Yes, I know, in a minute.

*He straightens up*

Anyway, you were saying?

From:

What's all th-

You're only a fireplace away for Merl-

Wh- no, I haven't had-

*He splutters as papers are pushed into his hands*

What are th...

*John quickly looks over the notes and route maps in his hand*

Peter this route is preposterous! It's miles of walking!

From:

You can jog if you prefer.

*That the sun is shining and there won't be a terrifying ex-Libdem leader growling threateningly at regular intevals means that this won't quite be the revenge for the exercise program that Peter had hoped for, but it'll do. He heads off to the kitchen to get breakfast for himself and Jack.*

From:

*John wanders through to the kitchen and makes his own breakfast when it becomes clear that Peter isn't going to prepare any for him. Eventually the three of them are in the car and on the way to the office. It's not a particularly long drive but not all the roads are paved and the ride isn't exactly smooth.*

*They pull into the gravel car park of the converted barn that houses John's constituency office. The old, painted wooden doors might look pretty, but there's the usual fight with the aging wood to get into the building. The sun is streaming through the windows in the roof highlighting all the places John and his team have failed to dust.*

Well, this is HQ. Is there anything you particularly need?

From:

...

*Peter wasn't averse to rural living - he had fond memories of Foy, but there's chocolate box cottages and then there's aggressive provincialism. The hunting prints lining the walls and lack of any technology younger than five years tended to skew the office towards the latter. It was also completely deserted.*

When did you say your staff were likely to get in?

*He grimaces at the answer. They can't wait that long. He'll just have to leave written instructions for the new leaflets then come back at two - that should give the staff enough time to produce a first draft and Peter enough time to edit it until it's actually presentable before it's sent to the printers at 4:30. He hesistates before signing off - he can't exactly sign it as Peter Mandelson and his handwriting is distinctly different from John's more affable scrawl.*

From:

*John notices the hesitation.*

So, what are we to call you? I suppose that, for the purposes of misdirection, "Peter" is right out - it'd be enough prompting to break through a glamour or notice me not, I should think.

And there's no point in a name with no meaning to attachment to you; I don't want to be standing in the middle of the office yelling - oh, I
don't know, Terry or Frank - at you and you not responding. It would ruin the pretense somewhat.

...I don't suppose you'd care to use your old nickname from the '97 campaign?

From:

*Pete grumbles and signs the note.*

Well I'm not using Benji.

*He shoves the pad of paper over to John.*

Write a note to let them know 'Bobby' is now running the campaign, and cast a glamour.

*He'd spent the entire car journey trying to get a glamour to stick, but as little as the constituency regarded John at the moment, it liked Peter even less and the spell always fizzled out.*

Edited Date: 2015-04-23 12:29 pm (UTC)

From:

*John finds a stack of post-its on his desk and writes a quick cover note which is stuck to Peter's instructions. He leaves them on the front desk where they should be noticed - he can always call the office and point it out to them when he finds a patch of constituency with phone signal.*

*John looks at the map with the route Peter has prepared for him. It's a small village a few miles over which shouldn't take too long to get to. It also contains a few home on Peter's list of 'hits' for donations. The rest of the route appears to wind back to the office. All in all it's a rather good plan - for a candidate half John's age.*

*John puts the thought to one side for a moment and turns to Peter's request. He could mock Peter for not being able to cast even a simply glamour here, but the smirk falls from his face as he starts to struggle with the spell himself - he didn't realise he had grown so used to the power of the Mace. His link with the constituency magic was unpleasantly strained. John tried not to worry about it too much and instead focused his nervous energy on transforming Peter.*

*Eventually, and with much pulling of ridiculous facial expressions, John gets a charm to stick. It's not his best work, but Peter certainly doesn't look like himself anymore.*

*John grabs a mirror off of one of the desks and hands it to Peter.*

I trust this meets with your approval?

Edited Date: 2015-04-23 12:57 pm (UTC)

From:

*Peter prods his face experimentally and grimaces. They're not the features he'd choose to be saddled with for two weeks but he supposes they'll have to do.*

I suppose so.

*He checks his watch. 8:30 am with fourteen days until polls open and they haven't even started canvassing most of the villages. He squares his shoulders. It'll be interesting.*

Jack can go with you - dogs play well on the doorstep, particularly with the sectors you're targeting.

*They head off into the morning sunlight, carefully locking the constituency office door behind them.*

From:

*John is tired and too warm and his feet ache. He's been ignored, abused, yelled at, mistaken for other people, called a fascist and traitor... at least Jack had fun - the dog was almost catatonic thanks to a procession of fuss, tickles and treats.*

*He gets back to the office and almost everyone is there. He is immediately jumped on about this mysterious "Bobby" character - who is he? Where did John meet him? Why was he now in charge when they were doing such a good job themselves?*

*John ushers them all out of the way with a promise to answer their questions as soon as he's had some lunch and fetches a drink for both himself and Jack.*

From:

*The first couple of house calls had not gone well. Peter was used to people having at least some idea who he was; knocking on the door and being met with complete disinterest was a by now unfamiliar enough experience to (temporarily) knock him off his game. He'd also forgotten just how ~~backwards~~ socially conservative some parts of the country still were about issues that any sensible person would have moved on from a long time ago. His almost reflexive tendency to defend the EU didn't help either. It was difficult.

By house number three he was beginning to get back into the swing of things - no cheque but a promise to consider sending one. House four was tech savvy enough to do an online bank transfer within about thirty minutes, and house five was a lovely little old lady who remembered Bercow fondly from one of his early campaigns and who wrote out a cheque with considerably more zeros on it than Peter had dared hope for.

All in all, a good morning and Peter felt justified taking an early lunch break at a local pub - as much to deal with the effects of drinking so much tea at each house as anything else.

He left at one. The sun was high in the sky and the occupier of the final house on his list was out in the garden tending the rose bushes. They chatted for a little while over the garden fence, but it wasn't until the man's wife came out that Peter managed to actually get another cheque signed.

By then there was just enough time to drive back to John's constituency office (Peter technically wasn't on the insurance but in this sort of place that was unlikely to be an issue) and deposit both cheques in one of the smallest branch offices he'd ever seen. It was with a rather smug smile that he ambled into the constituency office clutching a receipt showing deposits worth over £13,000.*

From:

*It took John a moment to recognise the man standing in the doorway, but he covered it well enough.*

Bobby!

*John extracted himself from the concerned ramblings of one of the sixth-formers to go over and greet him.*

Everyone, this is Bobby. Bobby this is, well, everyone!

From:

*Peter hands over the reciept to John before shaking hands with everyone in the room. It takes a little while but soon everything is settled enough for him to enquire about the new leaflet. There is an uncomfortable silence. Eventually someone pipes up with asurances that it's 'nearly done'.*

I see.

John, perhaps we could have a quick discussion in your office about this morning and come back to the electoral material in, say... half an hour?

*This seems to gain everyone's approval, apart from John who is still staring at the receipt as Peter hustles him into the back office.*

From:

*John is steered into the backroom and somehow avoids knocking into anything. Thankfully, Peter swiftly closes the door to stop the rest of the campaign team staring at John staring at the papers.*

H-How did you...

...You were gone for one morning! How in the world did you...

*He looks up from the papers, eyes wide in disbelief.*

From:

*Peter massages his eyes.*

You have some very wealthy constituents and they're quite susceptible to the conceit that donating to your campaign helps maintain Britain's political heritage and constitution. Oh... and you're popular in the over 65 knitting circles. You may wish to canvass that group again - with a little care they can be very reliable fundraisers and voters.

...

So. How was the response on the doorstep?

From:

We'll have to arrange a carpooling system to get them all to the polling stations...

*John snaps out of his donations induced coma quickly at the mention of the doorstep.*

It was... less fruitful than your exploits.

From:

*Peter narrows his eyes and makes a mental note to schedule a couple of visits to retirement homes - it's a very efficient method of meeting lots of voters at once and John seems to get on well with the blue rinse brigade.*

Any points of contention that stood out in particular? If we can at least address some in the leaflets it might give you a softer reception elsewhere.

From:

The biggest point of contention it seemed was the candidate... me, really.

*John sighs and looks around the small room.*

I've been away from the constituency for too long - it's not just the magic that seems to be forgetting me...

Edited Date: 2015-04-23 03:14 pm (UTC)

From:

*Peter, in a supreme act of willpower, resists the urge to say 'I told you so'. He also resists the urge to point out that John's possibly being a little over-dramatic.*

...fine. Go and get a sandwich. I'll organise a few events for this afternoon for you to do whilst the rest of us finalise the new leaflets.

*He waits for John to leave before looking up the nearest care homes - at first in John's copy of the Yellow Pages, but switches his phone when the book starts to fall apart. By the time John's returned from the newsagent with something vaguely edible and wrapped in plastic, Peter has booked him in for two retirement homes and a local book club. Nothing too strenuous and they should be finished by 6.*

From:

*John's already halfway through the sandwiches before he gets back to the office. He's bought a packet of every type of biscuit they had, but is mobbed by the office team and they are all taken away before he can have one.*

*He sits, gloomily, in behind his desk and eats the last of his lunch.*

From:

*Peter shoos John out as soon as the other man has finished eating, telling him to come pick him up just before 5. Once John and his associated aura of misery has left, Peter tries to load the proposed election literature on John's constituency office computer. The keys are sticky and the mouse has black gunk accreted on the sides from biscuit smeared fingers. He wipes his hands and tries it with his ipad instead.

The content isn't too bad. After all, he wrote most of it. There are only 4 glaring spelling errors and half a dozen less obvious ones. He changes the template to something a little less 1980s, then changes it back because on reflection, the 1980s probably poll well here.

A few more minor changes and it's ready to be sent off.*

From:

*John returns to the office a few hours later. The visits Peter had set up had done wonders for his mood - the old ladies cooed over the pictures of his children and assured him that they were on side. A couple had talked of their own children and grandchildren who they were now going to suggest come round to Bercow's office and help him out since he was such a nice man. "I might like UKIP" said an old man in a rocking chair "but standing against the Speaker isn't on in my books."*

*John had thanked him and either the social status or force of the man's words helped to turn a few more UKIPs into possible Bercow-voters.*

*The book club session went even better. John dazzled with Disraeli quotes and, thankfully, he'd actually read the book they were discussing that week and so could provide some relevant commentary. They'd laughed at his jokes and made him promise to come back after the election was over so they could have a proper discussion about some of the finer points of John's favourite books.*

*By the time he got back to the office - later than he had planned - he was almost bouncing.*

Bobby! How are things in the office?

From:

*Peter was bored. They'd got the design sent to the printers by 3:30, after which there wasn't much for him to do. He'd tried making some phone calls to other potential donors, but while people were willing to accept him as 'Bobby' when they saw his face, they grew slightly suspicious when all they had to go by was his voice. He could disguise it, with difficulty, for short calls, but for the longer conversations needed to persuade people to hand over large lumps of cash, it was almost impossible. Eventually he gave up and began working on an email campaign of his own.

By the time five o'clock rolled around and the rest of the group had headed home, Peter was almost bouncing off the walls with frustration. There's only so many emails you can send before it begins to look desperate - never a good thing, especially this early on. His tone, when answering Bercow's question, was therefore not as concilatory as it might have been.*

Peaceful.

From:

*Running high on a job well done as he was, even John could recognise that tone of voice. Thankfully, he had come prepared...*

Ah...

*John pulled a bottle of wine - the most expensive he could find in the off license - out from a blue carrierbag.*

A little gift, Peter, just to say thank you for all this.

*He offered the bottle to Peter.*

Shall we open it here or would you rather get home first?

From:

*Peter takes the bottle and gets up to leave.*

I may have a glass later. You are going to stay sober until all the votes are in and counted.

*He shrugs off John's look of disappointment and tries to get both of them to the door as quickly as possible.*

From:

*John tries to protest but is ushered out of the door before he can form a coherent argument.*

*The office is locked and John is driving the three of them home in no time. It takes longer to get back home with the last of the after-work traffic still on the roads, but they make it home in one piece.*

*Once at home, John realises just how hungry he is.*

Shall I fetch a take away for dinner?

*He looks at the whining dog at his feet.*

What shall I get for Jack?

From:

*Peter picks the dog up and fusses him.*

You like meat don't you, yes you do, yes you do...

...but you're an older puppy, aren't you. You need mushy food...

*He coughs and studiously avoids John's gaze.*

Mincemeat will be fine.

From:

*John, tactfully, doesn't say anything. He knows he was just as bad when the children were younger.*

A trip to the local supermarket it is.

*John fetches his coat and shoes.*

Is there anything else you would like me to fetch while I'm out?

From:

*Peter has already started on the wine. It's been a long day and his interview with Jon Snow could best be described as necessary, rather than enjoyable. He understands that he's not universally popular and that playing the thwarted villain is the best way he can currently serve the party, but it's unpleasant and not his favourite way to spend the day.*

No, not that I can think of.

*He pours himself a top up.*

From:

*John looks at the glass longingly but heads to the shop nevertheless.*

*He returns a while later with far more groceries than is strictly necessary. There's food for Jack, oven meals for the two of them for days and enough alcohol to sustain a small campaign team in the final two weeks of a general election. John has no inclination to take it to the office - Peter's bound to need a drink most nights given the state of his election group. There's also an impressive collection of biscuits.*

*He puts the food away, gets dinner ready for Jack and starts preparing dinner. He calls through to the living room.*

Everything alright in there? In need of a top up?

From:

*There isn't any wine left in the bottle - it's been a hot and thirsty day and Peter is now feeling intensely relaxed about everything.*

...I'm fine.

From:

*John has known Peter long enough to realise that code. He tops up Peter's glass once dinner's in and the frozen pudding is thawing on the side.*

*He'd love a drink, but he knows that Peter's right - Bobby can hide away in the office directing the campaign but John is the one with his face on the leaflets. He can't risk a hangover.*

Dinner will be in about 20 minutes.

*John wanders back through to the kitchen to make sure everything's tidy and pour himself a glass of squash. In the right light the blackcurrant drink almost looks like wine...*

From:

*He hadn't actually intended to drink more than a couple of glasses, but his glass seems to have refilled and someone else is sorting dinner, so it isn't that irresponsible. He lies down on the sofa and starts to flick through the channels until he gets to the news.*

Edited Date: 2015-04-23 08:01 pm (UTC)

From:

*John sorts dinner onto two plates and carries them and cutlery through to the other room. He has to nudge Peter into sitting up but the other man takes the meal without protest.*

*The fall into affable if somewhat slow conversation about the news.*

*All in all, John thinks, sipping at his soft drink, it has been a rather good day.*

From:

Mmm!

*Peter wakes up slightly as he remembers what he had meant to complain about to John earlier today.*

The sofa. You need to trans.. transf... turn it into something less cramped. Like a bed.

From:

I... I can't right now, Peter. Maybe in a few days, but for now I'm afraid the sofa stays as it is.

You could always go through the firepl...

*Even as he says it, Peter's blurred glare makes him stop.*

...I could get an inflatable bed set up for tomorrow night?

From:

...I am going upstairs. You are welcome to the sofa, or the inflatable mattress, or the other side of the bed, but I need a good night's sleep on something with some semblance of lumbar support.

From:

Peter! That's- but-

I'm the candidate, damnit; I'm the one that needs-

Are you even listening to me?

*John follows Peter upstairs, arguing all the way.*

*Eventually the issues is resolved; Peter claims half the bed, but at least John gets to sleep on his usual side.*

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